Renée Carlino - Nowhere but Here

“I’m sorry, Kate. He acted very inappropriately. That is not what we’re about here, and I’ve asked that he complete the interview via e-mail so you don’t have to go through that all over again on Thursday.”

“What? No! My whole reason for being here is to conduct the interview in person. I won’t get the answers I need if he can calculate all of his responses in an e-mail.”

She tilted her head to the side and then huffed. “That man has a very small role in the operations here.”

I pointed my finger up to the sky. “I knew it! It’s just his big, fat, stupid wallet, isn’t it? Everybody thinks he’s like this genius, but he probably just throws his money at everything.”

She took a deep breath. “I know where you’re headed, Kate. Look, the staff will show you around and let you in on how we run the winery, restaurant, and inn. It’s up to you what goes in that article, but I know by now you’ve heard that R.J. has veto power, so I hope you’ll think twice about how you approach your commentary.”

We entered the large, three-story bed-and-breakfast and went up a small flight of stairs to the first level. I held on to the fine, polished, wooden banister until we reached the landing. She handed me a key. “Your room is here. Your dinner should be up soon. I hope we can all start fresh tomorrow?”

“Yes. I’m looking forward to it,” I said sincerely. I’m going to get a story no matter what.

She smiled and headed down the stairs, shouting back, “You’ll get an itinerary under your door in the morning.”

Wow, an itinerary? This was one carefully organized operation.

I shut the door and leaned against it, surveying the room, then slowly made my way around. It was finely decorated in the same Arts and Crafts style as the lobby. Great taste. It had a Mission-style four-poster bed next to double doors leading out to a small balcony housing two captain’s chairs. The bathroom had a beautiful claw-foot tub, with gold fixtures and ornate tiles running along the walls, framing a porcelain pedestal sink. I collapsed into the feather bed covered in white fluffy pillows and an eyelet duvet and proceeded to type a text to Stephen.

Kate: I’m okay, not that you care.

Stephen: Do you realize how late it is here?

I’d really had a colossal mind-fuck of a day, but I was feeling feisty and decided to go for it.

Kate: Do you love me?

My phone rang instantly.

“What’s going on, sweetie?”

“Do you love me?”

“Of course.”

“Do you know where I’m at and what I’m doing?”

“You’re out of town on an assignment.”

“I’m not in the fucking Secret Service, Stephen. I told you where I was going, but of course you weren’t listening.”

“You’ve been distant.”

“Me?” I said in shock.

He sighed. “Ever since Rose died and you started having that dream, Kate—that bizarre fucking dream—and following that homeless dude around on the train like you worship him. I don’t get what’s going on with you. I wouldn’t blame you for losing your mind for a little while, but this has been going on for months.”

“I . . .”

“No, listen. We’re different, Kate; we always have been. Things have felt wrong for a long time.”

“Hold on. Are you beating me to the punch, you asshole?! You’re trying to break up with me first?”

“Listen . . .”

“No, you listen, Stephen. God, how can you be so heartless? It’s not a dream I keep having about Rose, it’s a fucking nightmare, and sometimes I wake up from it and realize the nightmare is real. She’s gone, just like my mother. She’s never coming back, but her sad, lonely life still haunts me. I was all she had, and then when she was gone, it was like she never existed. I’m terrified I’ll end up the same way, but at least I had you, though now I’m not sure I ever did . . . It doesn’t matter now.” I calmed down while Stephen remained silent. “It doesn’t matter now because I don’t want you. I’ll tell you why I’ve been listening to Bob on the train. It’s because he’s right. I’m all I’ve got.”

I began crying but made certain Stephen couldn’t hear me. Then he finally said in the calmest voice, “Well, I guess that’s it then, Kate,” indifference seeping through every syllable.

I swallowed. “Tell me the truth. Do you really think you love me?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think by now you should know.” My voice cracked.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

“So that’s your answer?”

Without waiting for him to respond, I hung up, feeling more stupefied than sad. The tears had stopped. I was shocked—not that I was losing Stephen, but that I had wasted two years of my life with someone who didn’t love me. I guessed my reaction meant that I wasn’t in love with him, either. Stunned, I stared at a tiny crack in the wall for several moments until I heard three rapid knocks. A shiver ran through me before I hopped off the bed and ran to the door, swinging it open dramatically. There was an older man carrying a tray. Had it been Jamie, I might have jumped into his arms. “Your dinner, ma’am.” I stepped aside and let him set the tray on the small dining table in the corner of the room. “Truffle mushroom risotto and a bottle of our 2009 Pinot Noir, compliments of Chef Mark Struthers and R. J. Lawson.”

“Oh, right!” I laughed maniacally, making a crazy cackling sound. The day had really gotten to me. The waiter gave me a frightened look as he opened the bottle of wine and proceeded to pour a glass.

“Enjoy, ma’am,” he said and then hurried out the door. Once he was gone, I plopped onto the bed again as the tears began flowing once more. I thought about Stephen and tried to conjure up one truly happy memory with him besides him fucking me on the washer in the basement, which could hardly be deemed as happy. In retrospect, our time together was mediocre at best.

Rose never liked him; she had said he was cold fish. I thought about the dream Stephen referred to in our argument. Shortly after Rose died, I began questioning my life so deeply that it started to unnerve me. Not having any family or knowing where you come from can make you feel like you don’t exist.

I would look in the mirror and not recognize myself. I would say, “Who am I?” over and over, and the feeling, the anxiety of not knowing the answer, would send me into a panic. I wished I’d asked every question I could think of before she died, but I didn’t. There were just a few pictures and a tiny bit of information that I knew about my parents and grandparents, but it wasn’t enough to imagine their lives. In my mind, if they didn’t exist then I didn’t exist, and it was when I started believing that to be true that the dreams began, those tiny whispers that sent me reeling.

Rose’s funeral was closed casket, but in my dream it was open and she was lying there, looking nothing like herself. In my dream she wore white, a color she never wore and a dress she certainly did not own and one I definitely did not bury her in. It looked like a wedding dress with lace sleeves and a satin bodice, but Rose had never married—like my mother, she lived a solitary and mundane existence. I walked toward her and could feel someone else’s presence next to me, but I didn’t know who it was. I leaned over and stared at Rose, lying there lifeless and appearing much younger than she had been in reality when she died. She had long brownish-red locks that tumbled over her lace-clad shoulders in the most angelic way. Even though she appeared to be about twenty years old—much younger than I ever knew her—there was an obvious sense that the body lying there was my Rose.